Nine Lives
by buttercupbella
Summary: He'll catch up to her, someday. For Autumn Win-dow's birthday.


**Title: Nine Lives**

**Summary: **He'll catch up to her, someday.

**Note1: **Happy birthday, **Autumn Win-dow**! To my FFn best friend, co-fangirl, and co-Adele imitator, thank you so much for inspiring me to write. Without you, I wouldn't have been as enthusiastic to write for the GA fandom as I was, and still hopefully am. We're halfway across the world from each other but always remember I treasure you just as much as the people closest to and nearby you do. I apologize for the tardiness of this fic, my block is holding me back with its restraints. I do hope you like this in spite of my style being too rusty! Jess, thank you for being born, you fantastic gal! (Check out her stories, they are extremely jaw-dropping. No kidding.)

**Note1.5: **Extreme OOCness abound. Mild references to previous fics **Speeding Past the Seaside **and **Midnight in Paris. **Try to guess where they are.**  
**

**Note2: **Information about author. See footnotes.

* * *

_What will you do with an eternity?_

* * *

**1**

_The Judgment Day has come._

Twirling the golden necklaces with his fingers, Ruka looks up at the sun, attempting not to shield his eyes from the blinding glare. He doesn't know of Icarus' story because the boy who burned his wings will still be born centuries after. Of course, Ruka is aware that the sun is deadly, and he wonders why people worship something that they regard as dangerous.

Is it because of fear? Perhaps.

They call Ruka a golden child — surprisingly, he is the only one crowned with gleaming hair that sets a wonderful contrast with his tanned skin. He's always been prized by the whole tribe, pampered with pounds of flesh gathered by their best hunters, surrounded by armed leaders with deep baritones murmuring, _"Don't you ever dare touch him. The gods will make you pay the price_."

Internally, Ruka scoffs. He is certain that he would be hanged if ever he discloses that he does not believe in the deities that his forefathers have tried so hard to swear their faith to. Every drought, Ruka bears the burden of witnessing head upon head tumbling down the stairways to heaven. He wishes to take the bloodied beating hearts from the hands of so-called priests because people do not need to offer their lives for something that's not quite so real.

But he's given up. Ruka has lost every ounce of compassion, exhausted after listening to rituals and the sounds of screaming and wounds being torn open. _Let them die, _Ruka mirthlessly says. _For grains and gold and glory. Let them perish for our sake. Let the gods have their lives in exchange for our own. _

On the eve of Ruka's 17th birthday, the priests burst through his chambers. Their horrified expressions are aggravated by each clap of thunder, and they hold their sacks of grains and gold to their chest, repeatedly whispering, "_A dream. A premonition. The gods are angry. Dear son, why have you sinned?_"

"_Sinned?_" Ruka spits, thinking of all the years in which he has sacrificed his voice for the deaths of many. As the storm shakes his home with murderous winds, the priests take a moment to calm their deprived lungs. They kneel and kiss Ruka's feet, and one looks up with solemn eyes. His trembling hands reach out to place an eagle's feather on Ruka's palm. Ruka is bewildered.

"_Death_," the only brave priest says. "_The gods command us to kill you._"

Ruka finds no courage to speak, and he, too, hopes that the eagle's feather would be enough to give him the strength to lie under the sun at the dawn of a new day, listening to his final breaths and heartbeats before they are all taken away.

_The Judgment Day has come. _

Reciprocating the blaze of the sun with a brilliance of his own blue eyes, Ruka allows his former guards to strap him to the table and remove all of his royal garments and golden cuffs. They nearly take away the eagle feather lodged in his blond mane, but he croaks, "_Please, don't. Spare this and you can seize what you will._"

"_As you wish_," his guards nod, and he can see in the twists of their mouth that they have no choice but to obey his last command.

Ruka closes his eyes, and all is still.

The feather of the eagle tickles his ear, and he can almost hear it laughing at his bound figure, its mocking playfulness in sync with the priests' chants and the echo of water trickling down his chest. The world is dark, but the noises consume him —

An explosion rips his ear, and the waves of terror rippling through the people he used to govern are the most beautiful melodies he has ever caught. Wasting no time to be stunned by the uproar, Ruka quickly detaches himself from his bondage and runs down the majestic stairway, with the feather of an eagle in his hand telling him to escape because he has not done anything wrong. The grounds erupt in flames and the escalier that they once considered as their path to the gods begins to vanish in hazy smoke.

He grabs a bow and a set of obsidian arrows discarded by a scurrying warrior, and scampers to the foliage. Nobody would head there because the fires would eventually catch up, but Ruka was once the son of the chief. He knows the forest enough to remember the streams, the animals, the wild beasts — and unlike his men, he is as brave as the eagle whose feather is now perched on his ear.

Before he sets foot on the precious grass, however, Ruka looks back at his fallen city, promising that one day, no one will be harmed anymore. As traitorous as the act of abandonment may appear, Ruka decides to leave and holds his oath of returning with the purpose of erasing the abusive religion of his kind.

"_Goodbye,_" he mouths to the toxic breeze, but not without catching a glimpse of a black-haired woman carrying a peculiar wooden contraption and a dark vial. In question, Ruka raises his eyebrows, but the female stranger places her objects on the ground.

She kneels, stares at the knife in her hands, and slices through her long ebony locks. Ruka isn't sure that what he has read on her lips is right, but he assumes it is "_Forgive me._"

The woman looks in his direction again, and says, "_Go._"_  
_

Without another thought, Ruka runs, hoisting his weapons and wincing at the resonance of the detonation from behind.

_Someday, _he thinks, _I will know her name. _

**2 **

_Who are you? _

The dungeon bars give way to the light, and Ruka grunts at the interruption.

"_Hail,_" somebody from the distance orders. "_Slave, stand up. It is your turn to redeem your freedom, or die by the hands of your opponent._"

"_I wish to sleep,_" Ruka murmurs. In the darkness, he can't see his own lacerated arms and tattered soiled clothes. His inmates stir in their nightmares and plead not to be taken out to the arena. "_Let me sleep, and I shall die by my accord._"

The _lanista _persists, untangling the chains from Ruka's worn feet. The crowd rumbles and howls for the next match in the open, obviously impatient for the involved gladiators. "_You must come. The Emperor will burn your confines, and you will be killed either way. You have a chance at life outside of this solitary._"

"_The chariot — the world is waiting._"

Irked by the _lanista's _prodding, Ruka kicks the dirt and languidly follows the path to brightness, bothered by the golden chariot displayed just outside the cell. He heaves, trying to steady breaths. Ruka may be the most disinterested captive and he may not have graduated from _Ludus Magnus, _the Great Gladiatorial Training School, but he knows that he is the last warrior to step on the battlefield because he is one of the best there ever is. That is the only reason he has remained trapped sharing the same roof with criminals and war slaves — the Roman empire needs him for business, entertainment, and profit. Ten years, and he still hasn't been freed.

The _lanista _shows no amazement at how the armor fits Ruka perfectly, as if he had been born for combat and bloodshed. Ruka, after putting his broad-rimmed helmet on, takes the reins and bids farewell to his pitch-black home.

His horse neighs as he ventures to the tunnel leading to the Colosseum. He is familiar with every crack in the ground and every ray of sunshine that seeps through the walls, having seen the view for almost a million times in this lifetime alone. The spectators scream his name in hopes of a victory, and the Emperor silences them with only his finger.

"_The Thraex, we welcome again,_" he salutes Ruka with that annoying smug expression. "_For years we have treasured him as the perfect epitome of Rome, and here he is once more. Let us watch this battle —_"

Ruka sneers and spits at the dry, bloody land, and wields his square-shaped shield and curved sword in challenge. Forget humanity, the merciful would not survive in a world of beasts and demonic audiences.

"— _with a Gladiatrix! Our best matched with the seemingly weak!_"

Mortified by this match with a _gladiatrix, _a _female _gladiator, Ruka is close to hurling his weapons at the Emperor. How dare they mock him in all his glory? The clamor of the crowd engulfs the whole arena as the woman steps out, clad in greaves and a lighter helmet.

In all honesty, Ruka feels the most vulnerable with this unknown woman — he can clearly picture his mother in his head, singing him songs of harvest during his naps on the cornfields. He can bear to fight even the most brutal adversaries, but not women. Especially those who remind him of people he swore to forget in his moments of weakness.

"_Are you afraid?_" the gladiatrix taunts, brandishing both of her swords. Even with a thin frame, she is capable of using her blades just like a man would. "_Do not hesitate to kill me when you have the opportunity._"

There is something odd in her voice — Ruka is certain that he's heard it before, but he's never encountered any woman of his age. The way she slowly treads, half-limping, an invisible road to Ruka's position reminds him of someone — the memory is distant, but her voice is as clear as day. Unexpectedly, the gladiatrix begins to charge, and Ruka blocks the attack in the nick of time with his sole sword. She brings her other dagger from her back to stab him in the neck, but Ruka counters with a jerk of his elbow and they break away to avoid tumbling to the ground.

The gladiatrix pants heavily, and she assaults Ruka again. In a swift turn, Ruka slashes across her arm but she still manages to hand a particularly massive blow to Ruka's knee.

Unable to hold his pain, Ruka snarls and falls, alarmed by his shattered patella. His female opponent clutches her injured arm and hovers over him with a masked look. "_Too easy. They tricked me. You are not the best._"

In response to Ruka's impending defeat, the audience roars, "_Burn him! Burn him!_"

Meanwhile, in his stupor accentuated by glimpses of memories of his mother, Ruka whispers, "_You...I don't know where I've seen you before. Who are you?_"

The gladiatrix stares at him for a long time, and wordlessly takes her helmet off. Her purple irises glitter in the midst of the scorching daylight, and her cropped black hair shine like a devil's halo. She reveals the cause of her strange limp by extracting a thin crossbow from her right thigh greave and aiming it at the Emperor. Ruka gawks in awe, and the last thing he hears is, "_Go._"

Ruka crawls away from the gladiatrix, and he hears the arrow launch to the direction of the Emperor's throat. They all shriek, "_Our king is dead!_" and he doesn't know what's happening anymore, but he looks back and sees that all chaos has broken loose and the _lanistas _are about to behead his savior.

He's seen her before, but he still hasn't found the audacity to retrace his steps and rescue her this time.

**3 **

Sometimes Ruka smuggles bread from the Romanov palace, even if he is the son of the Romanov's most trusted butler. No one has ever noticed him before, so he quietly retreats to the back of the kitchen, steals a loaf or two, and silently nibbles on the warm grub on the doorstep, unhindered by the snowflakes landing on his hair.

He doesn't notice a purple-eyed maid observing his theft every now and then, but that doesn't matter because she also doesn't mind anyway.

In the dawn of the Red October — the Bolshevik Revolution — Ruka parts with the magnificent halls that he has once deemed as his second home, steals a last crumb of bread, and walks away freely, still unaware of the girl who has always been watching him from afar.

**4 **

Ruka isn't, and will never be, an avid fan of redlight districts.

His friends in the modeling profession tug him along on a 'show of a lifetime', saying he needs to loosen up and embrace the liberties of Amsterdam. "_You know, it's legal here so we won't get in trouble. Your company won't be able to file charges against your dirty behavior if ever they find a woman in your room by daybreak._"

"_I don't have a 'dirty behavior'_," Ruka hisses albeit knowing that his colleagues are just teasing him.

"_You do,_" they say in unison. "_Everybody's got a little bit of taint in them._"

At last, they force him out of his cramped hotel room and into loose clothes. Ruka grimly follows their footsteps as they head out to the most popular attractions of Amsterdam, breathing heavily from the whiff of smoke and liquor. In order to avoid the view of stripping prostitutes proudly displaying their pectoral regions, Ruka whips his phone out and pretends to read important text messages from his manager.

One of his friends from the US snatches the mobile phone. "_That's only going to distract you. Lots of beauty around here, and you don't find a single ounce of appreciation?_"

"_I don't appreciate immorality._"

Releasing a disbelieving sigh, the said friend chucks the phone into his own bag. He points at several directions, enumerating the different ways they could spend their evening. It doesn't make any difference — everything that they are planning on pursuing tonight is undeniably illegal in the places they come from.

Ruka raises his arms in exasperation and accidentally lands his gaze on a particular shop. A mellow music hums to the fluid movements of only one woman in black lace, and Ruka's companions are disinterested by the lack of enthusiasm. The woman seems to sense this, so she begins sliding up the pole again and uncoiling her clothes from her waist.

Startled by her unwarranted seduction, Ruka yanks his jacket off and hastily covers the woman through the hole in the glass window. He slips some bills to her fingers and says, "_Please go home and forget about this job. You can be more than this._"

His friends cry in protest, and so does the prostitute. "_This is my body, and I decide what happens to it. This is my occupation. I won't listen to a naïve virgin._"

The manner in which her purple eyes glow in a jeer annoys Ruka to no end — he has risked being embarrassed in front of his peers just for a stubborn prostitute who chooses money over her own dignity. "_Fine_," he bites back and harshly jerks the woman's cropped locks for their lips to meet. After a melding of tongues, Ruka glares at her. "_You are mine for tonight. Don't fight back; you asked for this._"

"_I won't struggle,_" she replies too soon. Ruka almost feels sorry for her because she's just unleashed a side of him that detests being played with and laughed at, but he refers to his friends' statements for motivation. Amsterdam is a city of freedom, and by sinning he doesn't really break any laws.

In his dim room, Ruka regrets being one of the monsters who has ravaged a woman with nothing to offer to the world but herself. With every scream, thrust, and moan, he crashes his mouth against hers to muffle the guilt, but then he realizes that she may have had worse than this. To at least keep his humanity, Ruka wraps her with a wool blanket in the wee hours of the night.

Morning comes, and she is gone. A single piece of paper rests on the bedside table, and Ruka chuckles scornfully at a written phone number.

That's all she will ever be to him. A contact in times of lust and need.

Ruka refuses to believe he just wasted his first time with a stranger, but as he inhales her lasting scent in the sheets, he wonders if she is a stranger at all.

**5 **

"_There's a splinter lodged too close to her brain! There's nothing we can do!_"

The registered nurse in the room shakily handles her paraphernalia and almost topples the whole tray of scissors and disinfectants as she moves away from the female patient who has just been rescued from a car accident.

"_Quiet,_" Ruka growls on impulse, pulling his gloves on while mentally noting to report the incompetent nurse. "_Did you administer the anesthesia?_"

"_Of course,_" the anesthesiologist scoffs. "_This is basic procedure we're talking about._"_  
_

"_I'm just making sure that there are no more idiots around than what we need._"

Ruka starts making the incision along the patient's scalp after the nurse has hesitantly cleansed and shaved it. Blood trickles down her remaining ebony hair, but Ruka pays no attention to the beginning hemorrhage. He instructs the technician to hand him the air-powered drill to create a hole in the woman's skull. After performing a craniotomy, Ruka cuts the outline of the bone flap. He hears the nurse behind him hyperventilating as he begins to open the protective covering of the brain. _  
_

Distracted at this, he says, "_I need you to —_"

His sentence is cut short as he panics.

Never in his history of being a surgeon has he experienced a city-wide blackout during an operation.

**6 **

"_I'm sorry, Ma'am, but only one of your children survived —_"

"_No, you have got to be —_"

"_Here he is. It's a healthy baby boy with golden hair —_"

"_I need to see my other one!_"

"_She's dead, Ma'am — you're prohibited from seeing her. The doctors couldn't save her._"

"_I...please, let me see her. Just describe what she looked like. I just need to know before they take her away._"

"_...she has peculiar ebony hair, Ma'am, and I think I saw her flutter her purple eyes before she —_"

**7 **

It is 5 in the afternoon. Ruka glances around and slicks his damp blond hair from all the running done under the bright Parisian sun. As usual, a horde of international visitors is occupying the Champ de Mars' every single meter, snapping photographs of the Eiffel Tower in all its glory. Luckily for Ruka, a couple of tourists occasionally pass by with expensive cameras in hand, requesting for some pictures in front of the monument. Ruka is more than willing to take their photos since they offer him a few euros.

Sitting on a bench, however, is a lady in a flight stewardess' uniform. She sips on her coffee in the middle of the humid afternoon, and with her perfect poise, Ruka decides that she is, by far, his best subject in France. Although her attire speaks so much about the middle class, she acts like royalty, her back straightened and fingers cradling the cup in a refined manner. Ruka's mind is reeling with the number of titles he could give this picture, and now if only he could —

"_Excuse me, but haven't you been educated to mind your own business?_" the woman inquires, surprising Ruka and causing him to nearly let go of his Kodak. "_As far as I'm concerned, I haven't signed up for any modeling contracts._"

"_Oh,_" Ruka laughs. "_I'm sorry for that. I guess I was too allured to the view — ah, I mean, the whole scenery, subject included — to pay attention. If you don't mind, could I take a picture of you?_"_  
_

The raven-haired woman raises her eyebrows.

"_Even just one?_" Ruka tries, keeping his grin plastered to his face. "_I'm working on an important photography project, and you're really perfect as a muse._"

"_A muse,_" the woman repeats. "_How much?_"

"_How much what?_"

"_How much,_" she presses, "_will you pay me? I obviously came here for a fresh breath of air and a cup of coffee, not for a modeling stint._"

"_Unfortunately, I don't have cash on me,_" Ruka chuckles, emptying his pockets to show his lack of money. He becomes beet-red when he notices that an old piece of candy falls to the ground.

The woman snickers. "_Liar. I saw those tourists hand you some bills._"

"_So you were watching. I wasn't aware that I was doing an impromptu modeling stint, either._"

At this, the stewardess' purple irises flash dangerously. After a last gulp of her beverage, she tosses the cup to a nearby garbage can and dusts her skirt. "_Fine. Just one picture, and if this becomes featured in a museum, I am going to hunt you down for my commission._"

Ruka's smile stretches even further. In agreement, he flashes a thumbs-up sign and positions his camera. "_Alright, 1...2...3!_"

As the camera resounds with a click, Ruka feels an odd sensation in his chest. The stewardess looks wistful in her photograph, as if she is gazing at the familiar horizon. Ruka could say the same for himself, because he remembers something that he knows he hasn't experienced before. A sense of déjà vu for bizarre moments in time. He thinks his eyesight is weakening, or perhaps he is delving into insanity — he focuses on the picture for a little longer, and images of the Aztecs, the Romans, the Russians, prostitutes, operating room personnel, and a single mother resurface in his mind.

Ruka looks up to confirm his lost memories, but the bench is empty.

**8 **

If there's anything that Ruka detests more than dashing through seven flights of stairs, it's paperwork.

Glowering at the panorama of downtown Manhattan, he resumes reviewing his clients' finances. Numbers aren't really his favorites, but somehow, he is gifted with the mind of a mathematician. He only bothers to be a banker for the income, so he can earn enough to go back home. New York, for Ruka, is too overwhelming for a boy who grew up in a farm. The skyscrapers could collapse and devour him at any given time.

_Feverish, _he believes he is. Warm latte simply just isn't enough to calm his nerves and spur him to go on with his business. Glancing at the clock doesn't help, either, because just as he assumes that an hour has gone past, he checks the time and discovers that he's only been at it for twenty minutes. Ruka's job is one of the most financially rewarding, but not exactly physically and mentally.

8:45. His watch has always been set to be a minute early, so he takes the time to indulge for just sixty seconds and glance at the world below, swarming with ant-sized people.

They're scrambling. The majority of them are pointing upwards — is it some kind of socialist movement or an organized rally? As far as Ruka knows, all of the Americans have regarded the Twin Towers with utmost respect that no one would dare to stage a revolution against its construction.

The civilians keep their heads tilted towards the sky, and all of a sudden, they scramble just in time for the screaming in the office next to Ruka's.

It happens like a glitch: Ruka is thrown out of his chair and he lies face-down on the tiled floor. There is a blast somewhere — and smoke, he smells smoke. Too alarmed to pack his briefcase, Ruka rushes out of his office, in a suit and tie, aiming for the stairs. It is a bad idea to leave his belongings because buried underneath his checks and pens is his coenzyme Q10. Right now, his palpitations increase uncontrollably — his sight dims and he clutches at his chest, but he desperately needs to get out of here.

Good thing he is stationed at the seventh floor. Even in a time of emergencies, Ruka's mind wanders to the ones stuck in the hundredth floor, imagining all of the employees falling to the Earth along with debris.

If Ruka stays any longer, he might die from his abnormal heartbeats.

If he leaves, he'll be one of the few lucky people who has the chance to live.

"_Damn it,_" he curses under his breath, taking the elevator to the hundredth floor. He has the gut feeling that someone is still up there, hopelessly trapped under desks or crumbled concrete. Fortunately, the elevator is still functioning in spite of the building slowly succumbing to its destruction.

In just a few minutes, the elevator doors open, revealing a view of ash and fire. Ruka inwardly shivers. Blame his hero complex for stimulating him to do something as ridiculous as this — he has never been the type of man to risk his life for anyone, and this would probably the best time to atone for his lifelong cowardice.

Ruka grows devastated with each fleeting moment, a cry rising in his throat. Bodies are sprawled across the gray surroundings. The scent of burnt flesh hovers in the atmosphere, and he can feel the ground shaking and the whole building collapsing. He screams, "_Is anybody here?_", thinking that somebody must be alive in the midst of all the casualties. Somebody _should_ be alive. He didn't come here for nothing.

He scans the whole floor rapidly, eyeing the overturned seats and tables. Some loose wires threaten to deliver massive shocks, and Ruka almost gives up when a small voice whispers.

"_Wait...wait for me._"

Ruka turns in every direction to find the source of the plea.

There.

A woman covered with powder reaches her thin arms out. Ruka realizes that her legs are caught under a chunk of the ceiling, and she doesn't make an effort to thrash around knowing it will only hurt more. Ruka, upon taking her in his arms, holds back a lump in his larynx. It is virtually impossible to rescue the woman, unless Ruka knew how to cut her legs off and make two tourniquets.

Even if he manages to haul her from the rubble and safely reach the ground, she would die from loss of blood.

Ruka, silenced by his calculations, decides to remain. He pushes the woman's dusty black hair behind her ears and embraces her fully, closing his eyes to avoid breaking down. "_It's okay. We'll be okay. I'm sorry I can't get you out of this, but we'll be okay, I promise._"

The woman doesn't answer for a while, but Ruka's collar becomes damp and she starts to speak. "_Thank you._"

"_For what?_" Ruka asks, listening to the explosions and bracing himself for the impact.

He grits his teeth as everything becomes dark, but the tight grasp of the woman around him is lasting.

"_All of__ this._"

**9 **

"_Hotaru Imai,_" she says, violet gaze unnerving.

Although the cherry blossoms drift across the room while dancing to the fresh spring breeze, the whole class cringes at the new girl's stoicism. The room resembles a cryogenics laboratory in terms of atmosphere. Narumi, their homeroom teacher, interferes with his pheromones and happy disposition.

"_Alright, now that we know Miss Imai, could we also ask what Alice she has?_"

Ruka can't deny that once Hotaru's eyes have landed on him, he feels too cold for his liking. There are strange tingles creeping up his spine, as if the name is ringing a bell. The only times he has encountered the name before was when his mother led him into the garden and showed him the fireflies she had kept in glass bottles. He still remembers what his mother used to tell him.

"_Fireflies are magnificent creatures,_" she hums, laying her son's head on the grass to watch the small critters floating like mini-lanterns. "_You can only notice them in the darkness. When all else is lost, they will appear beside you. You won't know how important they are until something bad happens._"

"_What if I said I wanted to know them sooner?_" Ruka asks with a fragile voice.

"_You won't,_" his mother smiles. "_It sounds like it's a sad thing, but you will only realize what their value is once the night comes. Sometimes special things are only there when we feel as if we are doomed._"

"_So I could never appreciate them during the morning?_"

"_Oh, perhaps. But once you discover their significance and remember that, you'll get to keep them even when the sun is out. Even if it's just in your memories, you will._"

Nothing about Hotaru Imai exudes characteristics such as 'significant', 'magnificent', or 'special'. She looks too devoid of emotion and interest. Ruka decides that he will never have the willpower or the heart to approach someone as aloof as her. Pressing her lips to a thin line, Hotaru nods. "_Invention Alice._"

At this, most of the students mutter words of amazement. Natsume, Ruka's best friend, elbows him and shares a brief eye contact. Ruka understands what Natsume is pondering on: Hotaru is another potential three-star student. It's unusual for someone to obtain the Invention Alice, and by having the ability to conceive unthinkable technology would be a powerful asset for the Academy. In Ruka's perspective, Hotaru is a threatening tool in a reserve of brilliant students.

Ruka is surprised about Hotaru's constant absences in class. He's overheard that the Academy has provided her a personal laboratory that cost millions of dollars, and she is probably rooted to her desk trying to sketch various robot designs. If Ruka were to be given such a rare opportunity, he would claim the whole Northern Forest for the nurturing of his pets.

Hotaru doesn't cross his path again until a certain Mikan Sakura ends up inside the walls of Alice Academy and on Natsume's nerves. Every now and then, Natsume complains about the ridiculous blabbering of the idiotic transfer student, and Ruka sighs, always being delegated to spy over Mikan's activities and construct plans for her utter destruction. Of course, Ruka pretends to carry out Natsume's orders but instead befriends Mikan.

He feels sympathetic. At first, his attraction to Mikan is fuelled by pity, but the pig-tailed female never fails to spark his interest.

It is ridiculous to develop affection at age 10, but it becomes especially challenging and spooky when Hotaru is always on the lookout.

Ruka could assume that Hotaru harbors a grudge for him — it's just his impressive luck that the girl he's infatuated with is in a close-knit friendship with the girl who proclaims him as her enemy. Maybe Hotaru acts the same way towards everybody, but that doesn't aid with his situation with Mikan. He is a wonderful exception, though, because who else gets photographed in embarrassing situations which are made known to the whole of his fan club?

No one but Ruka.

As time progresses, Hotaru learns to 'warm up' to him — and by warm up, Ruka means tolerate. They no longer have ruckus over humiliating pictures or bribery. At least they can get along for the purpose of Mikan Sakura's safety. Even Hotaru couldn't be that apathetic.

Ruka notices Natsume's odd behavior towards Mikan. He's not as rude to others as he is to Mikan, but behind everyone's back, he snarls whenever Mikan disappears. "_That idiot. She's gone off to someplace again, expecting someone to rescue her. Tch. She should learn that she isn't in a fairytale._"

Precisely five minutes after his soliloquy, Natsume would stomp out into hills of piling snow. Ruka hands him his coat, reminding him of his recent discharge from the hospital. The flamecaster only grunts in return. "_You stay here. I'm going to haul that airhead back._"

He may seem inferior to Natsume, but Ruka isn't stupid. Natsume isn't the type of person who would trudge in a snow-smothered Central Town to look for his alleged enemy. It's only a matter of time until Natsume comes to terms with his own feelings, and though Ruka can be quite possessive once he finally deems something or someone as important to him, he lets Mikan go this time. Maybe Mikan is the missing factor in Natsume's happiness — Ruka has been there all these years, but even he can tell that he can only stay by Natsume's side whereas Mikan has the potential to pull him out of the shadows.

"_Look at those lovesick fools,_" Hotaru comments one day, plugging in her headphones to prevent her eardrums' carnage from Natsume and Mikan's bickering. "_I'm not an expert on emotions but I'm certain that people don't go on dates while screaming at each other._"_  
_

Ruka grins at Hotaru's ease at attempting humor. "_Sometimes they just have a funny way of showing that they care about each other. It's kind of their own language, and I think it's pretty original for them to have pet names instead of terms of endearment._"

"_Hn_," Hotaru murmurs. She seems to be in deep thought with eyes cast faraway. "_What about you, Nogi? What language would you use?_"

"_What are you talking about?_"

"_What,_" she says, "_would you tell someone you're in a relationship with?_"

Ruka's voice is caught in his throat. He has no idea what to answer — he's had his share of romantic movie nights transpiring from Sumire's parties, but not once has he thought of stealing some lines to feed his prospective girlfriend. "_Uh, I'm not sure. It would depend on how I think that someone would react to me spouting some dramatic dialogue. I guess I can say anything, but I won't lie. I'll never lie._"

Once he finishes, Hotaru gazes up at the night sky and doesn't show a change of expression. She keeps her silence for a few minutes. "_Stars...and fireflies. There's been a legend going around the village when I was small._"

Where has Hotaru's taciturnity gone to? Ruka is curious as to why the generally laconic inventor even talks to him about something as superficial as a legend. Choosing not to question her, he insists for her to continue. "_What was it about?_"

Exhaling puffs of smoke from pale lips, Hotaru says, "_There was a princess in heaven with a star on her forehead. Because of her beauty, even mortals are entranced by her very image, and all of them seek her hand. But she is seen as cold and heartless. Her father, the omnipotent god, welcomes a homeless seer in his palace, who in turn warns him of a catastrophe that could only be prevented by the maiden's marriage to a mortal man._"

"_The maiden__ refuses. The god is enraged, and he kills his daughter because of her stubbornness. The prophecy comes true — warriors come and ravage their land, and all there is left of their paradise is an empty and shallow swamp. The star on the maiden's forehead falls to the Earth as fireflies, and although their home is now in total darkness, the fireflies lend their brightness in case the stars don't show up._"

"_Wow,_" Ruka breathes sharply. "_I never thought you were interested in that kind of stories._"

Hotaru closes her eyes serenely, letting the wind sweep across her hair. "_It's very intriguing to see someone redeeming herself even after death. Even after she could practically do nothing but light the swamp at night because she couldn't save it the first time she had the chance to._"

"_Maybe she thinks it's her opportunity to apologize for all the things she's never done._"

"_Maybe,_" Hotaru contemplates.

They never speak of it again.

The Alice War destroys them all — the students, the faculty, the buildings, and every dream that they've ever had. Ruka is too terrified of tomorrow due to Natsume's failing health and Mikan's seclusion. He is practically worthless in dire times like this, only chasing far more powerful enemies and being a liability to his friends. Ruka doesn't like recalling the times when they stay huddled in a corner dividing a single piece of bread among themselves, too paralyzed to counter the enemies. They are Alices, but no one could strip them of the fact that they are humans, too.

Ruka, undisturbed by the grime on his face, aids in transferring the affected students to safehouses. He stands together with Natsume, defending themselves from the ESP's subordinates. Determined to defeat the ESP himself, Natsume launches a series of attacks, and Ruka nearly goes out of his mind, knowing that Natsume may very well be asking for a death wish.

"_Ruka, get out of here!_" Natsume screams, igniting the whole hall with his flames.

"_No!_" Ruka holds his ground, skin burning from the intense heat. "_You're killing yourself!_"

"_I'm going to live, I promise — I promise, Ruka, just get out of here. I swear I'm still going to see Mikan. I won't die here, just — just get away and protect the others!_"

Conflicted by Natsume's state and his will, Ruka races to the outside of the flaming building, shouting for help. At the exact moment he falls to his knees, Mikan dashes past him and Hotaru and the others follow closely, painfully reminded that Natsume is on the brink of death.

"_Natsume,_" Mikan whispers upon seeing Natsume's immobile figure.

Nobody pays heed to the ESP — they are too fixated on watching Mikan's desperation unfold before them. "_Natsume, you told me we were going to be together..._"

Hotaru is the most afflicted from the scene. As Mikan fails to revive Natsume with her now-gone Alice, she crumbles into a sobbing mess, uttering Natsume's name over and over again in hopes that her voice would bring him back. Raising his arm to cover his swollen eyes, Ruka heaves, giving in to his own despair.

He notices, in the corner of his eye, that Hotaru is furiously wiping her eyes, pleading Nodacchi for a specific favor. "_I need to time-travel..._"

Ruka doesn't digest what she has just said until a few seconds later. In consternation, he grabs her thin arm and snarls, "_You're not doing this. I won't let you —_"

"_I'm tired of seeing Mikan cry,_" Hotaru hisses in return, shaking off Ruka's hand. "_Do you want to just accept Natsume's death without doing anything about it?_"

"_I —_"

"_Of course not. This is to set things right._"

"_Sacrificing yourself isn't right,_" Ruka hoarsely begs. "_Please, I've had enough of losing people._"

Hotaru breaks away from Ruka's hold, joining her brother and Nodacchi on the other side of the corridor. She smiles forlornly — Ruka's heart batters his chest because she's never smiled at him before — and mouths, "_Goodbye._"

Ruka blinks, and his last glimpse of the trio is of Hotaru burying her face in her hands.

* * *

Ruka waits.

* * *

He finds her mushroom earplugs and sometimes listens to her deadpan to the microphone when he knows she's really breaking inside. The artificial way of hearing her almost feels like a reality, and for a mere minute, Ruka is contented with imagining her next to him.

That night, he watches the fireflies in his backyard until they stop shining.

* * *

On the shoreline, Natsume, Mikan, and Ruka make a pact to search for Hotaru for the endless depth of time. While Natsume has his arm around Mikan, both of them liberated from the evils of Alices who lost their way, Ruka's hands fall limply. Even after all these years, he is still torn by his weakness — his incapacity to save the person who's always been there to save him.

* * *

Hotaru has drastically changed — she trudges towards her friends carefully, wary that the next step might lead her to a dimension a millennium away from the present. Mikan, however, just runs up to her and cries against her shoulder.

The image of Hotaru flickers in Ruka's pupils — he sees a slave, a gladiatrix, a maid, a hustler, a patient, a flight stewardess, a banker, and a little student in Alice Academy. He doesn't realize that he has tears in his eyes until Hotaru laughs, as carefree as the wind_._

"_I finally found you._"

* * *

"_What will you do with an eternity?_" Hotaru asks nonchalantly as she tinkers with her broken robot. They are in their twenties — Ruka is already a supervisor at an IT company while Hotaru is working on her next patent. A patent for a billion-dollar invention, to be exact.

Ruka almost chokes in the absence of a coherent answer, and more so when he realizes that Hotaru is questioning him about himself. That's something that she doesn't do very often, and it's a spectacle that only he has been granted the privilege to witness.

"_An eternity?_" Ruka regains his composure, and smiles to himself. "_That's probably too long and impossible to have, but if the man upstairs gave me forever, I'll spend it with you._"

Hotaru responds with a "_Tsk,_" but even Ruka knows that she's thinking of the same thing, too.

"_You know, I've dreamt about you. Us. We were going through history, I never knew who you were but you were always there. And at the end of each life, someone — either one of us — had to leave._"

"_Well, I'm here now, am I not?_" Hotaru shrugs. She refuses to bring up the past months wandering in the vastness of time, and Ruka could swear that her eyes have become a little glassy.

Ruka scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "_Yeah, you are. One more thing...thank you, Hotaru._"

This catches Hotaru by surprise. She turns away from her tools and faces Ruka with her shining violet eyes. "_For what?_"

Slowly, Ruka entwines their fingers and angles Hotaru's chin so he could kiss her properly. Hotaru's lips are as cold as his own, but it doesn't matter as long as she's accepting his invitation. By the time he pulls back, Ruka's eyes soften. He lifts their entangled hands and smiles, contented by the sight of two identical silver rings._  
_

"_All of this__._"

* * *

**End**

* * *

**Note2: **I am terribly sorry for my lack of activity here on FFn. I don't want to write a whole rant here, so please visit my profile for details.

**Note3: **I'm not entirely sure about the surgical procedure. I haven't had any clinicals yet so I apologize if I had some errors. The Aztec (uh there are some discrepancies with that) and the Roman sections were the most enjoyable to write, by the way :) I kind of altered the canon, too. Meh.


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